


'It's Like Being At Home'

by Serenhawk



Series: The Cockles Digest [5]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Basically, Cockles, Dom Misha, Dom/sub, Fluff, Led Zeppelin references, M/M, Misha POV, Orgasm Delay, Pillow Talk, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Schmoop, a smidge of praise kink, flagrant misuse of kitchen utensils
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 16:00:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2156574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenhawk/pseuds/Serenhawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I couldn't come up one. Did I mention this is 80% smut?<br/>Set in the early stages of shooting S10.</p><p>This is a work of fiction. No disrespect intended to those whose names are used. I'M SO VERY SORRY.</p>
            </blockquote>





	'It's Like Being At Home'

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aquielle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquielle/gifts).



 The title is a quote from Misha: his infamous response to someone impersonating Jensen. Full details here [[X](http://supermishamiga.tumblr.com/post/54366290300/chris-does-a-jensen-ackles-impression)] 

For Aquielle, who's a little bossy when it comes to my Cockles... which I happen to respond to.  She rips me apart with Demon!Dean feels in return.

This was prompted by one of our twitter conversations that included references to Jensen's jawline, the genesis of his feelings for Misha, and the generosity of this [[X](http://thegraceofserendipity.tumblr.com/post/94558848135/pray4jensen)]

Jensen is playing the acoustic portion of this [[X](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iP9xMobANJM&list=RDiP9xMobANJM)]

 

********************************** 

 

Misha was having a soft-focus moment. The kind where the threads of life seem to be in perfect alignment, suffused with the idyllic vibrancy of an impressionistic painting. The kind where a tiny shadow lodges itself on the periphery, because life can’t possibly remain this replete and uncomplicated for too long.

At least for the time being, everything was extremely agreeable: a whirl of motion and noise, but stable and predictable enough that he could enjoy it. And there were enough quiet moments where he could truly appreciate everything he had. Like this one, sitting on the couch in Jensen’s northern apartment having eaten and consumed a bottle of Italian red; his friend’s head in his lap and fingers carding his light hair as he sprawled out beside him, instrument resting across his abdomen on which he was perfecting the opening phrases of ‘Babe I’m Gonna Leave You’.

His kindle was abandoned face down on his chest, having given up reading in favor of drifting with the lilting hum and squeak of the strings. He didn’t really like the electronic versions anyway; the backlighting, the artificial rigidity, devoid of the personalities loaned by their contents. He’d much prefer a forgiving spine and the texture of paper, the modest sanctity of a book that wore its life on every turned-up page corner. But when you were somewhat transient modernity was more practical.

“I hope you’re not playing that as a portent,” he eventually mused aloud.

Jensen stopped and rolled his eyes back, blinking behind lashes lightened by the summer.

“I didn’t think you’d know what it was,” his friend replied, curious.

Misha was slightly hurt. “Just because I am largely bereft of musical talent doesn’t mean I’m ignorant,” he pouted. “Besides, at college in the early nineties what else did you listen to at 4am when you were stoned out of your tree and The Pixies and The Smiths had been appropriated by the bourgeois.”

Jensen’s brow quivered. “And Zeppelin hadn’t?”

“Well, yeah,” he acquiesced. “But when you’re twenty and stoned out of your tree at 4am, it _seemed_ very authentic… as everything does of course,” he finished with a crooked smile.

Jensen mirrored one back. “What do you mean ‘largely’?”

“What?”

“ _Largely_ bereft of musical talent. I’d have said that was being generous.” His friend looked down and began plucking at the strings again – obnoxiously, in Misha’s opinion.

He wasn’t going to dignify such a cheap shot. But he wasn’t above retaliating with one of his own, curling his fingers and yanking roughly at Jensen’s hair. Being longer than usual it had become something of a habit.

“Oww,” his friend whined, frowning melodramatically.

Misha leaned over him to catch his eyes. “Shush, you know you like it,” he stated with low confidence, slowly increasing the pressure in his grip again, pulling tight.

And unmistakable flicker crossed Jensen’s stare, which was promptly obstructed by the back of a hand, middle finger insolently raised under Misha’s nose.

He giggled and leaned back, nursing at his friend’s scalp. Was that Jensen covering, or provoking? Probably both, he decided. And he had to admit he was entirely open to provocation. His friend squared his shoulders and resumed, deft fingers contorting over the strings.

“You never answered my original question,” he pointed out, “about the choice of song.” He knew he was fishing but he wasn’t sure why.

He saw Jensen’s face stretch into a smile. “Why, you worried?” he asked, concentrating.

Certainty struck Misha like the hyperbolic thunderbolt – it was something he’d found himself mulling over a few times recently but now, inexplicably, he _knew._

“No, I’m not worried.”

“Oh. Confident, are we?” his friend sang back.

“Yes, and you know why,” he said with gentle conviction. “Because you fell for me within a month of meeting me, and I think no matter where our lives take us, part of you will never let go of that, part of you _belongs_ to that fall.” Of course it was overly presumptuous said out loud, more-so than he’d intended. But it was a visceral truth he wanted to articulate, for his own benefit as well as to see Jensen’s reaction.

His friend’s attention faltered, the guitar falling silent and rising sharply on his chest as his lungs sucked in a long breath.

He smoothed his fingers across Jensen’s forehead and leaned over once more, though the clouded eyes refused to meet his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to trouble you,” he said in soft murmur. Actually, he probably did; troubling Jensen had come naturally for so long it had become ingrained. He was someone, Misha had decided long ago, that benefited from troubling.

Quiet, but with an array of emotions echoing in his features, Jensen seemed to be struggling with something he’d triggered and Misha began to feel a little remorseful. He was aware his companion in this relationship grappled with the meaning of it all on more than an occasional basis. While he knew Jensen was happy, he’d also learned his friend benefitted from reassurance that what they had was both deserved and durable.

After a few minutes of silence he decided on a countermeasure, to try replacing the rug he’d rather selfishly pulled with another, of a different kind.

He cradled his friend’s head, lightly kissing his temple as he slid out from underneath him to stand. He began walking to the bedroom but passed what he needed near the front door and doubled back, picking up the soft grey cotton.

Turning, he made his way back into the living area where Jensen had moved to sit upright, adjusting the some of the pegs on his guitar. His eyes caught and followed him as he drew nearer, widening a little after flitting down to the object he carried. Misha crouched in front of him and after lifting the instrument from his legs and placing it to the side, met his friend’s gaze. He hung the scarf between both hands and held it in offering.

Jensen sat staring at the fabric, passive apart from his right hand smoothing down over his thigh in one of his tell-tale self-assuring gestures.

“Please,” he finally answered Misha’s unspoken proposal, his voice timid but settled.

Misha didn’t waste any time, pushing up on the balls of his feet. “Stand,” he ordered quietly. Jensen took a deep breath and complied, rising to meet him chest to chest.

Smiling calmly, he put his hands on his friend’s shoulders to spin him around and then swept the scarf over his head, securing it tightly over his eyes. “Strip, everything. And wait,” he ordered against the shell of his ear before moving around him to head for the kitchen. He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do, but he was adept at improvising. This usually went by improvisation in fact, and it had yet to let either of them down.

Rummaging in the kitchen he collected a few items that his imagination thought useful: a wood barbeque skewer, some metal tongs, a couple of squares of ice, a wide slotted wooden spoon and a haired pastry brush; why the fuck Jensen had one of those he didn’t know – this was probably the only occasion it would see any use and the thought amused him more than it should. Lastly he grabbed a paring knife, briefly cursing that he hadn’t put one in the freezer when it had occurred to him last week.

He turned to head back to his waiting friend, but upon seeing him had to stop and take a long moment to silently thank the gods of heteroflexibility. Jensen stood as instructed; devoid of clothing apart from the blindfold, tanned, half erect, refined jaw arrowed to the floor and tentative expectancy informing his entire posture. He looked the very definition of _fuckable._

His eyes weren’t the only part of his body to notice, blood thundering against his jeans, having (somewhat habitually) neglected to pull on underwear. He needed to focus however – this wasn’t about him. At least not yet.

Misha made his way back to his friend, putting the assorted utensils on the coffee-table beside him but retaining the tongs. Jensen lifted his head at his presence; it was time to lay out the requirements, most of which his friend adhered to almost automatically by now anyway.

He put the cold flat of the tongs to the inside of Jensen’s knee and drew a gradual line up his inner thigh and over his groin and abdomen, satisfying shivers erupting under the implement. “I want you to kneel and put your hands out in front of you, placed flat in the table,” he said dispassionately as he travelled the path over honeyed skin. “I want you to move as little as possible, especially your hands, they must not leave the table. You may not speak, other than Please or Thank-you, though you may nod or shake your head. Understand?”

“Yeah-- yes,” Jensen said, muted.

Misha was prepared – Jensen often needed a push at the beginning. He released the tongs enough to aim the other man’s right nipple between the teeth and closed them, firmly but less than what he’d consider to be harsh. A tremor ran across Jensen’s shoulders. “Understand?” he repeated. Getting no immediate reply he squeezed harder, knowing Jensen was pushing both their limits but allowing it. He kept increasing the pressure until he could sense his companion clenching his jaw in discomfort. Finally he received the nod he required but maintained the squeeze for several more seconds, re-fixing the limit as his own.

“Good,” he said warmly, releasing the metal with care before dipping his head and wetly circling the upright nub with his tongue. Jensen leaned toward the heat but Misha retreated. “Not that good. Now, knees,” he instructed shortly.

Jensen obeyed, dropping on the spot. He felt to his side for the table and shuffled to face it, resting his palms as requested on the surface, fingers splayed. “Move back,” he said, “I want your ass in the air.” The other man complied, walking his knees backwards until his back was almost flat. “Good, thank you,” he approved.

He pulled off his shirt, discarding it on the couch before he dropped to his haunches and tried to decide where to start with the array of sensations he had in mind. Nothing too challenging, but enough to reliably string his companion out to the point where he could scoop him back up again. He picked up the skewer and jabbed the point lightly into Jensen’s side who jumped, as expected. Dragging the tip down over his friend’s hip, Jensen dutifully shivered as it travelled over his rear. Misha gingerly tucked it between his legs to run it along the side of his lengthening penis and back across his testes. Jensen startled again, twisting his hips and Misha hissed disapproval at him. “Careful, no moving. It may be hazardous,” he noted, poking the point just shy of Jensen’s perineum. His friend drew a sharp breath but otherwise stayed still.

He paused and waited, planning his program until Jensen cocked his head, trying to anticipate what was next. Misha picked up the brush and ran the soft bristles languidly down the path of his friend’s spine, tickling it over his anus and balls while collecting the spoon in his free hand. “You see,” he stated flatly, delivering a hard whack with the flat side to Jensen’s right ass cheek as he continued, “you may make fun of my musicality—“ Jensen jerked slightly but made no sound.

He circled the soft brush across the spot he’d hit. “But right now—“ He paused to land another slap with the spoon, to the left this time, “you are the instrument I want to play.” He made a second hit to the same spot for good measure and Jensen choked a gasp.

Misha picked up one of the ice cubes and applied it to the reddening skin, circling it against the sting for a moment before exchanging it for the knife. Holding it blade edge away, he traced the tip over the sole of Jensen’s foot to his inner thigh, skirting his hip and ribs then all the way down his right arm to finally rest the point on the back of his hand. Wielding the spoon again he applied another hit to the right cheek, confident Jensen wouldn’t be tempted to move while he held the knife carefully in place. “Do you want me to play you?” he asked, dragging the knife tip on the return journey the length of his friend’s body.

“Puh—uhh.” Jensen cleared his throat. “Please,” he answered shyly.

Misha moved behind him and picked up the ice again. He soothed the second site of abuse before rubbing it over Jensen’s anus, numbing the skin and watching the muscles either side clench. “Good, I’m pleased to hear that,” he said, before washing over the area with his tongue to an audible sigh from his friend.

He leaned away to issue yet another hit with the spoon. Jensen barely flinched this time, and he massaged the flesh with his fingers. He applied the ice again, circling it at the top of the crease to let drips form and run down between the blushing cheeks. Twirling the spoon he lightly mapped the moistened valley with the blunted end of the handle, pausing to press over the gathered entrance. His friend squirmed but not, it appeared, in apprehension. Misha smirked, both surprised and appreciative that he was getting away with this. Jensen was capable of the most extraordinary responses; as his cock clearly illustrated, elegantly curved and plump beneath him.

Misha put down the spoon and collected the skewer again. “You’d like me to touch you, wouldn’t you,” he stated evenly, and Jensen nodded. He licked his thumb, and while reaching around to slowly pass the sharp point from the root to head of his friend’s cock, pressed the pad against the expectant hole, testing the resistance. A tremble ran up Jensen’s legs, his knees and shoulders starting to waver. Misha scrapped the implement and took his friend in hand, stroking as he applied more pressure with his thumb and finding little opposition.

“You’re so welcoming and responsive, I like that,” he almost purred in spite of himself. Fuck he was hard now. He’d like to just down his pants and take his friend; watch him as he came on the floor, wheezing and incoherent while Misha was buried inside him. But he wouldn’t no matter how tempting, nor how on edge his companion seemed already. _He_ needed some relief though, some contact of his own.

He stood and stepped around to Jensen’s head. “You can relax,” he conceded. “But will you do something else for me?”

Jensen immediately nodded. “Will you taste me? I need you,” he requested truthfully.

“Please,” was the gratifying answer. Before he could do it himself Jensen had risen to fumble for his fly, undoing the button and zip with ease despite still being blind. ‘Fuck,’ he thought, this man never ceased to delight him.

He was pulled free of the denim, and it was his turn to gasp as plush lips parted and surrounded him and he was awash with warmth. Jensen sucked him in, worked him with his tongue in rare fervour. Misha needed to see the look in his eyes when he was like this, so he pulled the scarf off his friend’s head, throwing it to the floor. “You’re too good to me, you know that?” he said, voice husky, and meaning every word.

Jensen looked up at him and hummed, increasing his pace and working his mouth and grip along Misha’s length until it was all he could do not to thrust deeper into his throat.

“Stop,” he barked, weaving fingers into his friend’s hair but feeling that familiar coil twisting behind his balls, his skin flushing with a wave of heat. He’d left it late, and Jensen didn’t stop. “God, stop-stop fuck—“

Jensen snapped his head forward, taking him to the root and issuing a long growl. The guttural hum vibrating around him as he hit the back of Jensen’s throat was enough to propel him over the crest despite his effort to push backwards. “Fuck… ahh—“ Words scraped into nothing as he was lost, cock surging against the slick compression. At the first pulse the heat retreated and he was left exposed, bereaved but impelled. Then Jensen’s hand was jacking him through the remaining waves but angling him down as he sputtered, spend streaking onto the cleared plate still resting on the table. Dazed he focused on the eyes that shined up at him, brimming with original sin. His friend held his stare as his head dipped and tilted to lick a broad swathe through the liquid; once, twice before ascending to gently suckle at him, milking him through the last quiver of orgasm.

“Holy... _fuck_ ,” he breathed before plunging to his knees. He clutched at Jensen’s jaw to launch at him in a kiss full of astonishment and greed. The briny taste of himself in Jensen’s mouth made him moan, a pathetic noise at the back of his throat he tried to disguise by sweeping his tongue over his friend’s, climbing into him.

Misha pulled back, disorientated, full of devotion and the inertia of post-climax. Jensen’s eyes were closed, but he swiped a thumb across one freckled cheekbone and choked something resembling a laugh. “You—“ he panted, “For that piece of insolence you just bought yourself a one way ticket to not-getting-fuckedville, but… fuck, you gorgeous shit—“ He kissed him once more, casually, and tried to compose himself - Jensen would need him to. “I might still let you come. Eventually,” he added belatedly, moulding his fingers around Jensen’s length in guarantee.

His friend’s eyelids flicked open to take him in, calm and alert. Misha began to jack him in earnest; fast downstrokes, lighter slow upstrokes and Jensen’s breathing quickened as he began to sway. “Please,” he whispered, eyes beseeching.

“You going to be good for me now?” he asked, and Jensen nodded, lids closing. Misha bowed to generously mouth at his friend’s head in short swirling tickles of tongue.

“Please,” came again, coarsely this time.

“Not yet,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “You have to prove it to me first. Now go shower, and I’ll meet you.”

His companion stood without hesitation despite the time spent on his knees and ambled down the short hallway. Misha hastily gathered up the implements he’d chosen and the remnants of dinner, dumping everything in the sink before turning out the lights and moving towards the bathroom. Once there he kicked his jeans into one corner and entered the large steamed cubicle without announcing himself.

Stepping up to Jensen’s turned back he ran fingertips down his friend’s spine through the rivulets of watery shampoo suds, not pausing before sliding them deep into the crevasse of his ass all the way to his perineum and back. Jensen widened his stance as he worked the area in long slow caresses, watching the play of developed muscle under the glistening skin. The other man’s shoulder’s stretched and shifted as he leaned forward for support, groaning softly.

Misha loved it when Jensen was pliable like this - soft and forgiving and _available_ in every sense of the word. It was such a contrast to the cultivated placidity Jensen exhibited most of the time. To get him to truly stop thinking, and over-thinking, was a victory not lost on either of them. He’d often wondered what he was like with Danneel; not in _that_ way (okay, maybe sometimes in thatway), but whether or not she ever really got to go into his head. He was tempted to ask her in fact, but although the two of them conspired to gently tease Jensen on occasion, that was probably overstepping the sometimes uncertain boundaries in their collective relationship.

Jensen was subtly pressing against him, seeking, but Misha was getting cold so he withdrew backwards, his friend indulging in a small sigh of dismay.

“Turn around,” he ordered gently, “I think you’re clean enough.”

Jensen complied and Misha spun him around until they’d swapped positions. He backed under the water and Jensen turned to leave. “Wait,” he protested. “Not yet.”

His friend paused and looked at him for direction. “Close your eyes, and touch yourself for me. I want to see you take pleasure in yourself. Will you do that, for me?”

Jensen let his eyelids fall and nodded slowly before taking himself in hand and began tentatively stroking, almost as if he was fragile. “Good,” Misha encouraged. “Feel how thick you are in your hand, the texture, every tiny undulation reverberating warmth inside you as your fingers slide over it.”

His friend bowed his head, lips softly parted, appearing to step inside his suggestion. Misha hurriedly soaped himself before he got lost in the sight before him and forgot the practicalities. Jensen’s rhythm began to quicken.

“Will you do something else for me?” he asked, pushing his authority. In his experience everybody had a small measure of exhibitionist kink but Jensen’s remained under-utilized. His friend nodded again.

“I want to see you finger yourself – only one. I want to watch as you work yourself in tandem for me, slow but hard, will you do that?” Jensen nodded once more and immediately obeyed, reaching behind with his free hand, mouth slack and fingers tightening their sliding grip. Misha couldn’t help giving himself a few lazy tugs, the vision was just too stunning. Of the many times he’d told Jensen to go fuck himself, this was undoubtedly the most rewarding.

“God, you really do look magnificent like this, so… sinful, so pure,” he said with feeling. “I want you to feel every push inside yourself; suck it in, need more, need completing.”

The tempo of friend’s movements began to change and falter and his inhales rasped, shoulders hunching like he was in pain. Misha moved forward and gripped both his wrists firmly to break him out of the moment, forcing him to abandon himself. “You’re being so perfect for me, I know you want to come,” he said with genuine compassion, taking his friend’s velveteen erection in his own hand.

Jensen nodded again and flicked open his eyes. “Please,” he said plaintively before drawing a sharp breath. “I-- " he broke off in favour of giving him an intense stare.

Misha only nodded his understanding, but let his eyes fall down his friend’s frame in a gratuitous show of appreciation. He turned off the water and led him to the towels, ignoring himself to wrap one around Jensen, who remained impassive. Rubbing him down gently he took his time, placing the odd butterfly-light kiss on skin as he went but ignoring the bobbing dick that tried to solicit his attention.

“Go, get into bed, I’ll be there shortly. No touching until I do, yes?” Jensen bowed his head once and turned, leaving Misha alone to tend to himself. Truthfully he couldn’t wait to have Jensen writhe and explode, but he wanted so badly for it to be good for him. Love, desire, sex – the human brain was such a curious wonder he noted for about the millionth time. The elements that made up an individual’s sexual personality had seemingly unending combinations and outcomes when explored. He wanted to KNOW them all, right now, as impossible as it was. Even his own.

Turning off the light he padded into the bedroom and folded himself under the covers, leaving a lamp on at the bedside. Jensen was lying on his back, eyes closed in apparent peaceful repose. Misha propped is head up on one side and wormed a hand under the sheet to begin tracing random circling patterns; across his friend’s clavicle and pectorals, down the inside of his arm and over his hip and abdomen.

“Mish,” Jensen breathed, hardly a whisper. “Please, I need you.”

“I know,” he murmured back, reaching lower to brush his fingers over Jensen’s sac.

The other man abruptly rolled and pinned him. “No, I mean _need_ you,” he said before kissing him roughly, all teeth and stretched lips and desperate tongue, pelvis grinding downwards. Misha let him, not concerned he was breaking scene.

“’m sorry,” his friend mumbled, reversing as quickly as his initial movement to resume his neutral pose.

Misha took a long breath to reassess his intentions before mirroring Jensen’s action, rolling onto him and sinking to cover as much of him as he could.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m here,” he said softly, hovering just above to capture his friend’s reluctant eye-line. “You have me.”

Jensen’s arms curled under his, palms gliding over his sides and curving back over his shoulder blades. One hand came to rest at the base of his neck as strong forearms pulled him down. He fell into another kiss, long and tender but deliberate, Jensen drinking him in like he was lapping nectar.

Misha would give him anything.

He parted their mouths and nuzzled under his friend’s jaw to his ear, bestowing messy licking kisses and nips down the side of his neck and along the dip above his collar-bone. He drew back so he could proceed over Jensen’s chest when he was interrupted by impoverished babbling. “Please… Mish, I need—.”

He hovered over Jensen’s face again. “Hey,” he said, questioning.

“I just—“ His friend bucked, hips searching upwards to squirm against his as he cupped his head and pulled him down for another kiss, which Misha took charge of this time, making it deep and hard to try to extinguish the restless frenzy in his companion.

“Shh, let me care for you,” he said evenly once he’d pulled away. Jensen’s eyes darted over his, so he kissed them closed, dropping his lips in dainty presses over his cheekbones and nose ending with one last gentle swipe from the tip of his tongue across his mouth.

Jensen’s hands fell away and Misha carried on, taking his time, tasting and cherishing every inch of skin his mouth landed on. Jensen’s incoherent pleas and curses began to die away, replaced by shivering as Misha kissed down each rib his left side to his hip. He nipped at the sensitive spot there garnering a strained soft noise, and then journeyed back over his friend’s abdomen to do the same to his nipples, holding them between his teeth before laving with his tongue.

“Shh, baby,” he reiterated, raising his head. Jensen had calmed but was frowning, his fingertips pressing into Misha’s arms where they rested. “Be quiet, and let me make you come, okay?”

Jensen nodded slowly, eyes still closed. “Thank you,” he mouthed back, conditioning still at work and striking the chord of Misha’s zeal.

He proceeded down his friend’s torso, painting circles with the point of his tongue, then looped down the crease of Jensen’s groin and under his balls. He breathed heat into them, cradling the tissue between his lips, then ran his tongue measuredly the length of his friend’s arousal before encasing all he could into his mouth. Jensen stayed quiet but Misha felt his fingers sneak atop his head, toying with conducting.

He worked at him for a while, alternating his pace and pressure, driving his tongue through the small groove at the head, sucking down. Jensen was hard, marble wrapped in velvet, his testes tight as he left his friend’s cock and mouthed over them again to lick at the sensitive skin behind them. Jensen inhaled sharply, drawing up his knees and lifting his pelvis in response, and Misha pounced on his ass, flattening is tongue against the pucker and driving in a maelstrom of licks.

He eventually sat up, to a groaned protest. He wrapped his friend’s length in one hand and after sucking on one finger, rubbed the moistened pad against Jensen’s anus, the skin supple and soft from the shower. “Are you gonna fuck me?” the other man asked looking at him, eyes craving.

“Would you like that?” Misha asked back, a smile edging into his voice.

“Yes.”

Misha jacked his friend slowly. “No, I’m not,” he said finally. “I said I wouldn’t. But I want you to come for me, hard.” He emphasized the intention with a push of his finger, inserting it firmly through the slacking ring of muscle as far as he dared.

The other man cried a long moan, ending in a violent “ahh, fuck, please—“ Misha’s dick quivered; he adored seeing Jensen _allowing_ himself to be brought to the edge, especially of somewhere he never thought he'd be.

He withdrew the digit slightly before completing the invasion, crooking the end to begin pressing in tiny movements, his companion whimpering small noises and arching, fists clenching at his sides.

Misha bowed his head again, taking Jensen’s distended erection first in hand then his mouth, forming a harmony of pressure, ministering sensation and momentum. The other man’s thighs began to unmistakably shake as he was drawn taut, a string of “pleasepleaseplease” falling in halting murmurs, and Misha knew he’d wrung him out enough. He expelled Jensen’s member with a short pop just enough to speak.

“Come baby, come for me,” he commanded, his voice scratchy. Jacking hard, he sucked the angrily red head back between his lips, jammed and swivelled his finger inside his friend with renewed force and Jensen stiffened one last time with a soundless cry. Hot fluid pulsed into his mouth as he held delicately still, waiting for the sudden lull before swallowing, and finishing with a few last swirls of his tongue in reverent cleansing.

Satisfied his friend’s sensitivity was abating, he released the softening flesh and kissed his way back up his body to lie beside him, waiting for him to level out. After a moment Jensen rolled to tuck his head under Misha’s chin, who shifted to tangle their ankles together and began to brush simple caresses down the back of the other man’s neck. He was beginning to wonder if Jensen was abandoning him for sleep when he was unexpectedly fastened to the bed and kissed again before his friend backed down his torso to nuzzle under his balls.

“Jen, what are you doing?” he asked cautiously, irrationally disappointed Jensen wasn’t comatose.

“It’s called fellatio, Mr Perceptive.”

“I… I don’t need that, I need _you,_ come here.”

“But—“ Jensen dipped his head again to lick a wet stripe over his half-hard length.

“Jen, babe, I appreciate your generosity, but chill the fuck out. You’ve done enough for me.”

Jensen scoffed a light laugh and rolled to the side, making a pillow out of Misha’s groin. “Chill the fuck out? Geez you’re an asshole. How has Vic put up with you for twenty fuckin’ years?”

“That, my friend, you will have to ask her,” he replied, honestly.

“I will,” Jensen threatened. “And I’ll tell her you told me to ask.”

Misha pulled a face, and hoped he’d never be anywhere near ground zero for that conversation.

They went quiet, Jensen shifting his cheek to below his hipbone and tracing spidery fingertips over and around his penis, more tender than erotic.

“Are you okay,” Misha asked. “I fucked this up didn’t I.”

Jensen was quick to reply. “No. It’s me, don’t worry.”

“I do worry,” he urged.

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well, that’s a completely unreasonable suggestion,” he shot back, with mock indignation.

His friend snickered, and resumed his gentle fondling.

“What _are_ you doing?” he asked after a while. “As much as I like your face hanging out with my dick, I’d prefer your company up here.”

Jensen made a scornful noise.

“What?” he prodded.

“I just wondered when it was having my head in your crotch started to feel like home.”

Misha couldn’t help but give in to a hearty laugh, the quaking enough to dislodge his friend who shuffled up next to him, laying the back of his head in the crook of Misha’s outstretched arm. Jensen probably meant it as a throwaway remark, but it chimed something warm and significant inside him.

“Seriously, you alright?” he repeated, earnestly this time, swivelling his head to eye his companion.

“Yeah, I’m… it’s—“ Jensen looked at the ceiling and let out an emphatic sigh, full of resignation. “I’m fucked,” he ground out, in a generalized summation.

Misha chuckled, not sure which context Jensen alluded to. Maybe all of them. “You’re a weird and wonderful creature is what you are,” he said fondly, knowing his friend would probably bite that hook. Jensen was happy to be many things but ‘weird’ wasn’t one of them.

“ _I’m_ weird? Everyone knows _you’re_ the weird one,” Jensen replied, indignant. “I thought you were weird the day I met you and nothing you’ve done since has changed that opinion.”

Misha smiled and curled his arm to press a kiss to Jensen’s temple, who huffed for good measure. He started absently petting his friend’s hairline and sifted through hazy memories of that first day, six years ago.

“You’re right, you know,” his friend said quietly after a few moments.

“About?”

“Me, falling for you, right at the beginning. And it... it's changed me. I'm not sure who I'd be without this now. I don't wanna know."

Misha was surprised. “Really? ‘Cause I was kind of joking about that.” He hadn’t been, but he’d doubted Jensen would ever recognize the fact, let alone admit it - well the first part at least.

“You wouldn’t have pointed it out if you didn’t believe it on some level,” Jensen countered dryly.

Oops, caught.

“Hmm,” he hazily admitted. “You have to agree there was always _something_ there, even if the start was... inauspicious.”

“’Cause you were weird.”

“And you were a dickhead,” he tossed back.

“I was not,” Jensen obligingly sulked.

“You were an ass. Not in general, just to me.”

“You love my ass,” his friend charged, not missing a beat.

“True, but don’t change the subject. It should have been a clue right then.”

Jensen sighed loudly. “You were very… endearing,” he finally offered.

Misha stayed quiet, hoping he’d continue.

“You were all smart and serious, and silly… like _absurd_ , and kinda cute, for a dork. And you swore a lot.” Jensen looked at him. “And I… I wasn’t sure what to do with all that. Well, the cute part mainly.”

“There’s a difference between cute – endearing and cute – hot,” he pushed.

“I guess you were both then,” his friend gruffed back.

Misha grinned at him. “It did take some time to work each other out. And I suppose that… uh, _tension_ we both felt didn’t help.”

“Mmm,” Jensen pondered, turning to creep his fingers across Misha’s chest to where his left hand rested, weaving them together and lazily wrestling their thumbs.

“Then I guess we just assimilated it. Or ignored it,” he reflected. “It took us a fucking long time to get here.”

“But we got here in the end.”

“I appears so,” he agreed, squeezing their knuckles together.

“Wherever the fuck here is,” Jensen huffed after a few moments.

Misha rolled his eyes at the worn sentiment, then turned to press his mouth into Jensen’s hair. He breathed in the scent, drifting in idle contentment. ‘Its home,’ his mind echoed Jensen’s earlier choice of words, like they’d been shouted at him from a cavern and were just reaching him.

Here is home.

 

***FIN***

**Author's Note:**

> Yes at university in the early 90’s I could sometimes be found with high fidelity-esque friends stoned out of my tree at 4am whilst listening to Led Zeppelin.
> 
> Just in case anyone was worried, No I was never going go there with the wooden spoon.
> 
> Special thanks to Misha for the bruised bum I received falling off my chair giggling with all those 'book tweets' sent hours after I devoted a paragraph to him and books. It's coincidental meta-moments like those that have me believing my own headcanon 100% rather than just the usual 99.


End file.
